Changing Hands
by Old Roman
Summary: A short and sinister Haunted Mansion story about an unfortunate young master, his wayward bride, and a mysterious caretaker, all in their corruptible, mortal state.


It was haunted. Everyone knew it. Even the preacher knew it, though he'd deny that such a thing was possible. The house's appearance seemed right for it: a crumbling mass of brick and mortar, the plant life long having declared ownership of the grounds. Like an old stain on fresh linen, Bloodmere Manor stood in stark contrast to its neighbors, its window-eyes glaring down on the rest of Liberty Square.

"I don't much like it," the new bride sniffed.

"You don't much like anything Connie."

"I like my pearls." Yale nodded; he was only half-listening. His advisors had assured him that the mansion was unoccupied, and now there was an odd-shaped little man appearing in the front door. He wore a heavy cloak, despite the August sun, and needed the assistance of a cane. The creature seemed to be excited. He was hobbling toward their carriage as fast as his bony legs would allow. "Oi! Master Gracey!" he called as Yale reined in the horses. "So pleased to finally meet you sir! They said you'd be comin' today!"

"And who are you?"

"Why, the caretaker, sir."

"Caretaker? I was under the impression that Bloodmere Manor had no heir and no need for a caretaker."

"True indeed, my last master died without a son to inherit th' mansion, but I could never leave. Too long have I served the noble house of Blood. You could say I'm a sort of indentured servant." Here the impish man smiled, revealing a rather horrid set of teeth, one gleaming gold among them. "I have quarters in the attic."

"You must have led a rather lonely existence these past few months."

"Au contraire, I have the bats to keep me company, eh heh heh heh heh!" Master Gracey sidled uncomfortably, privately thinking how it could be possible that even bats would befriend such a creature. "I don't require any pay sir (here Gracey regained his composure), just my cot and a good meal every now and then."

"Very well. I may have need of you in the future. Certainly you could do something to improve the look of the grounds."

"Of course, of course. And this must be the Mrs.!"

"Constance. Yes, she is my new bride. We were married shortly before leaving my father's estate."

"Mazeltov, master."

"You didn't tell me your name, caretaker."

"Hattington. Daniel Hattington. But I prefer to go by Hatty."

"And why is that?"

"It's what the bats call me," and here he smiled again.

"The Blood family has quite the interesting history, you'll soon find out." The caretaker, who seemed more like a cockroach than a man, hoisted the Graceys' bags over the threshold. Gracey wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. The house smelled like death, and nearly looked the part for all the cobwebs and dust. "Stabbings, poisonings, duels, and suicides . . . it's a wonder how much can be accomplished in one generation's time. Most folk consider Bloodmere Manor to be haunted by fierce and vengeful spirits." Constance was paying utmost attention to Mr. Hattington. Her husband, however, was observing their surroundings. They were in a dark hallway lined with several strange paintings, none of which had a subject that he found pleasing to the eye. "I've heard the stories from most of Liberty Square," Master Gracey replied with disgust, "and I can't say I'm worried. Tales of ghosts do not trouble me."

"Nor should they, sir, nor should they."

"And it is no longer the house of Blood. As of a month ago, its proper name is Gracey manor. And with a change in name comes a change in practice. This mansion's reputation is going to change."

"Tight about the neck I'll do 'im . . . "

"Excuse me?"

"I said 'tight ship you seem to run', sir."

"Carry our bags to the master bedroom. Return here and await further instruction."

"Anything you desire." Mr. Hattington scuttled up a narrow staircase. Master Gracey began examining the portraits. A stalwart sea captain, a severe old couple, a sinister man brandishing a knife . . . There were eleven in total, and all of them ghastly. But the most unsettling feature of each was the eyes. The eyes seemed to follow Gracey wherever he went. Surely that was a trick of the light. "Hideous things. First thing we'll do is dispose of . . . Connie? Connie?" The master looked up and down the hallway. His young wife was gone.

"You don't wait long, do you?" came a hiss in the dark. "Probably wanted to jump my bones outside."

"Oh, please. I just spent two months in a horse-buggy with that boat-licker. I've been dying for a good romp." Constance shed her petticoat quicker than should have been possible, pushing Mr. Hattington on his back in the process. "He's a nauseating weakling of a man."

"I take it this is not a case of love going sour . . . "

"I married him for his estate. The Graceys are the wealthiest family along the Hudson. Now shut up and screw me."

"You're my kind of woman Connie. A slut."

"And this room, miss, is the portrait gallery. The finest renditions of some of the mansion's most illustrious guests."

"How very interesting Mr. Hattington. You are quite the tour guide." Master Gracey was approaching both of them, looking livid. "Constance! You scared me half to death running off like that! What if something happened to you?"

"I am not helpless, darling. And besides, the kindly old caretaker was with me. I merely saw this chamber upon entering the foyer and felt the strongest urge to investigate. Do forgive me for upsetting you."

"Certainly I'll forgive you. I just worry about you so . . . what room is this?"

"As I was just explaining to your lady, sir, this is the portrait gallery. A fine old artist used to live here, a friend of the family. She painted these masterpieces during her stay." The room had three large paintings hanging on the walls. Constance and the caretaker were admiring one that featured a bearded man with a grim visage. "Dear God, is this entire house covered in grotesque paintings?" Gracey murmured, then looked around frantically. "How did we enter this room? I do not see any doors, nor windows for that matter."

"So distressed over his missing bride he doesn't notice his surroundings. How touching," Mr. Hattington remarked to Constance, who smiled mischievously. "It's actually rather ingenious. Master Blood designed this room for the most private of parties, and so had an opening constructed that closes itself, as if by magic, when someone steps on a certain panel hidden in the floorboards. It's damned difficult to find though, when you're ready to leave." Mr. Hattington walked in a large circle around the room. After so many steps, the wall on the right of him slid to one side, revealing the foyer. "And voila!"

"Thank you Hatty. A most curious house . . . "

"This is nothing sir. You haven't even seen the ballroom yet."

"Perhaps later. I am weary from my journey, and should like to rest awhile. Are you going to join me dear?"

"Oh goodness, I am not the least bit tired," Constance replied. "I want to see the music room Mr. Hattington was telling me about. He says there's a piano. You know how I love to play the piano."

"Very well. Be safe."

"It's my first thought, sweetheart."

"Let me see if I've got this right. You've married four men for their money already." The adulterous lovers were in the attic, looking out over the public cemetery that neighbored the unfortunate mansion. "And barely after they got out the words 'I do', you gave them the axe. Literally."

"More or less."

"Well, that settles that. I'm the perfect man for you."

"What makes you so sure of that Hatty?"

"Because I've got no money. No reason for you to bump me off."

"I suppose that does put you ahead of the others."

"So regarding your newest conquest, gutless Gracey . . . I want in."

"Excuse me?"

"I want in. I want a piece of the action, the money, and the goods. Well, I suppose I've already had your goods." He showed a snaky grin and reached for her chest. She dashed to the opposite side of the attic. "What makes you think I'll want to keep you around?"

"Oh, be honest with yourself. I'm the best you've ever had."

"There's not much in the way of comparison Hatty. By choice, I've only seen one wedding night -Gracey's. And he wouldn't have made it that far if our reception wasn't held in his bloody father's house."

"Why didn't you just kill him on the way here? You had weeks."

"I wasn't especially fond of the idea of lugging all my things here myself."

"And he doesn't wonder where all those possessions came from?"

"I told him that they're heirlooms from my family's history. He's too stupid to know any different."

"I'm positive of my permanence now; you wouldn't be telling me all this otherwise." Constance nodded as if to assure him. "So I say we kill 'im quick and simple-like."

"Cutting off his head is simple."

"Look Connie, I don't know what manner of village idiots you're used to, but folks in Liberty Square know that it's not all that simple to remove one's own head with an axe. You can thank my old masters for morbid knowledge such as that. Anyway, they'd know it was foul play. We need something that looks more like a suicide."

"And what would you suggest, my little vermin?" Hatty reached for something under his cot and stood up holding a length of double-knotted rope. "Ever hang someone? It's a hell of a rush." Constance looked longingly out the window, where a tool shed was clearly visible. "Oh well," she whispered. "There's always his brother George."

Master Gracey retired to his bedchamber. So consuming was his exhaustion that he did not bother about the dirty sheets. The bloodstains escaped his notice. He was not asleep one half hour when he heard someone knocking on his door. "Whaf do you fant?" he mumbled into his pillow. The knocking only became louder. Aggravated, Gracey got up, donned his robe, and walked over to the door. "Really Hatty, couldn't this have . . . " There was no one there. Confused but no less irritated, Gracey groggily made his way back to bed. The knocking resumed before he had gotten under the sheets. "Really now, this is ridiculous!" He opened the door again, only to find nothing but a dark corridor. But the knocking didn't stop this time. It continued down the hall, every door booming, breathing, aching to be answered. The noise was chaotic, and yet, Gracey could swear he heard music coming from just beyond the darkness. His curiosity overwhelming his fear, he began traversing the cavernous hallway. It seemed almost endless, but finally opened up into a large room with a small round table in it. In the center of the table sat an ornate crystal ball, like something a psychic would use.

Intrigued, Gracey cautiously approached the table. "Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat; call in the spirits, wherever they're at!" Gracey fell over backwards. There was a woman's head in the crystal ball. And it was talking. "Rap on a table, it's time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere beyond! Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine!" All manner of instruments, including the tambourine, had appeared out of nowhere and were flying about the room, making music -all unaided. Petrified, Gracey ran the opposite direction, and found himself in the ballroom the caretaker had mentioned. He soiled himself. Ghosts were everywhere. He never believed in them, but here they filled his entire field of vision. They were dancing straight through the furniture, sitting at the cobweb-encrusted banquet table, even swinging from the chandelier. "Constance! Mr. Hattington! CONSTANCE!" he yelled, sliding in his stocking-feet across the slick dance floor. "We are leaving NOW!" He ran up a flight of stairs and through an open door, finding himself in the music room. The piano was being played. . . but not by Constance. The shadow of a man bled across the moonlit floor. "Darling, I'm right here! What is the matter?" Gracey looked up to see his bride waving from the far side of the foyer. He sprinted through the hallway of portraits. It was no trick of the light. The eyes were watching. "Connie, get your coat. We are leaving this blasted place this moment!"

"Leave? Why would you want to leave sir?" Mr. Hattington came from behind the secret panel, making both of them jump. Gracey spun around. "Mr. Hattington, what exactly is the history of the Blood family? I need to know!"

"Master Blood; did himself after his wife's body was recovered from the river after weeks of searching. Slit his own wrists, he did. His sons, Richard and Philip; killed each other in a duel fighting over Madame Leota. You've already met her, of course." The caretaker grinned in his most sinister fashion. "She was employed by the family to bring in a little extra. Never knew what happened to her. Ah, Aunt Emma. She wasted away after her husband died, poor thing. And of course, my old friend Elias Arrows. Got caught cavorting with the mayor's teenage daughter and was executed on trumped-up charges." He closed the tome. "Fascinating reading, don't y' think?"

"Fascinating reading? FASCINATING READING!? THE HELL IT IS!" Gracey started pacing around the portrait gallery. "This house is filled with the spirits of some of the most despicable people I've ever had the displeasure of hearing about! And they clearly do not want us here! And they . . . they . . . " Gracey's eyes narrowed. "They should leave. Of course! They should leave! It's my house now, not theirs! I'm staying right here!"

"So what are you thinking sir?"

"I'm going to have this mansion exorcised by the preacher. I'll not have Gracey Manor associated with death."

"Wouldn't dream of it sir," Hatty sneered, as Constance, having snuck up from behind, threw the rope around her husband's neck. "That's it Connie . . . tight about the neck we'll do 'im . . . "


End file.
